Meeting Kevin
When travelling, I find that meeting people happens whether I am ready for the occasion or not. In the middle of forested gum trees with a small running stream, we meet Kevin. We had just started our job working on a potato farm outside of Melbourne and we were at a designated spot free camping was permitted. There were always different sorts of people coming and going from the camp area. One night two fellas with metal detectors looking for gold combed the whole grounds (not uncommon). Families would stay and big rigs would squeeze their way down the narrow pot holed dirt road only to realize they’d have to make a fifty point turn or back their way up the road. Some days we’d come back from work and the place would be packed and we knew it wouldn’t be a quiet night. Other times it would be just me and Chris.
We pulled into our usual parking spot underneath the shade of a large gum tree after a long day on the potato harvester. Sitting in the front seats of the van with the windows down we were unwinding from the day. We noticed a new arrival to the forest camp area; a mid-sized, old style camper van (RV in American lingo) with brown wood striped siding whose dingy outward appearance caused me to wonder how many laps around Australia it had driven. We saw a hunched over man limping down the hill wearing a faded yellow work jacket, brown stained pants and Aussie work boots. (A common, no laces pull on leather work boot – I used to wear them horseback riding. To me they symbolized the Aussie work boot because so many people wore them.)
He waves and we wave back as a common gesture signaling friendliness amongst strangers sleeping next to one another in the middle of the forest. He was obviously making his way towards the van and we open our doors getting out greeting him.
“Backpackers! Ah…” he shouts. (Backpackers was the common term for people traveling around Australia in their vans or cars.)
“Are you working or travelling,” he said.
His eyes are off set, his taped glasses crooked, scruffy beard hair and spacious bottom yellow teeth speak with a thick Aussie accent that is hard to understand.
“Working right now on a potato farm,” I said.
“Ah!” he responded slightly laughing while leaning to the side taking in the sight of us young people.
“My name is Tiff and this is my husband Chris.”
“Kevin! Kevin is my name,” he yells at us and we shake hands.
“How long you out for,” I asked him.
“Oh – I’m heading back home towards Perth. By the time I get there I’ll have been gone two years.”
“Have you seen my dog?” he shouted. “Not that I care. He’s a little shit. I just haven’t seen him in a while.”
We all take a moment standing in place and look around for a dog.
“I see a dog over by those trees,” I said, pointing to a small terrier sniffing away at some gum trees about 100 feet away.
“Oh good,” Kevin said, as if that was exactly what he was expecting to hear. “Isn’t he just great? I just let him loose and he does his thing. When he’s ready he’ll come home. If I have the door closed, he’ll bark.”
“In fact, that’s why I’m out. I was fine in me camper (it is common to talk like that, ‘in me camper van, in me home, in me car) and this little shit started carrying on like a pork chop demanding that I take him for a walk.” (This is perhaps one of my all-time favorite lines of Aussie lingo I heard the entire time I was there.)
Kevin looked around and we nod because we understood most of what he said.
There is a slight pause which he used to point at his crooked eyes and tells us he is getting eye surgery next week. Then without missing a breath, he continued loudly, “I have a mate who grows capsicums (Australian for peppers).” Kevin paused briefly to reflect, as his mind carried him to the image of his friend. Then he furrowed his brow, lowering his voice to a more solemn tone, “I don’t know why anyone would want to do it – most labor intensive job ever.” Then his voice raises again and gesturing wildly he describes how each plant has to get tied up individually and there are dozens of them, no hundreds, no thousands of pepper plants everywhere and each needed to be tied on its own.
“How many people does he employ,” Chris asked.
“None. Just himself. Well – and the backpackers. When he gets too full on he can’t keep up and takes on a couple backpackers. I imagine he must pay them something of an hourly wage.”
His attention is distracted as he points and shouts towards the inside of our van, “Hey! You got a light on there!”
He peers inside to state what we already know, “Oh, it’s just your open door light. OK. Just checking.”
“So I’m having eye surgery this next coming week. See, I was supposed to have it done a while ago, but it got cancelled so I got put back on the waiting list. Now it’s been so long I have to get a physical again.”
“It’s not easy to see a GP (general practitioner) here. I kept calling around and no one could see me before next week. Then I found this one place that doesn’t take appointments. I asked them ‘You don’t take appointments.’ I couldn’t believe it when they said, ‘No, you can just walk right in.”
“So I go to see the doctor because I have to – you know – just to make sure I won’t die on the table or anything.”
Chris and I had been standing there listening to all this and then Kevin yells as loudly as he can. “Max!!! Max!!! Come here!!!”
The dog didn’t come or so much as lift his head from his sniffing mission around the trees.
“Well – it’s ongoing training with this dog. You know, I give him lots of praise when he does come back. When he doesn’t – well he’s too far away and I can’t do much about it.”
“How long have you had the dog?”
“Oh, about three years. Yeah, ongoing I tell ya.”
“How long do you imagine it will take you to get back to Perth?”
“Oh, about two months I reckon. Well, it’s a matter of economics see. I only fill up what me pension check will allow. This thing here (gesturing over towards his camper) is horrific on fuel. I can only go about 400 kilometers a week. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have other money in the bank if I need it, but I’d rather not use it.”
Over the next week, we talked with Kevin nearly every day. He continued to tell us all kinds of stories about his life in between yelling as loudly as he could for the little shit on four legs. It was apparent from the moment we met Kevin that he adored his little dog more than anything. We got a very detailed explanation of the intricate basket mechanism he created so that he could take Max into town with him on his tiny moped, buy a week’s worth of groceries and still be able to bring back forty liters of water.
For reasons that took me a long time to figure out, Kevin made a lasting impression on me, his stories and images remaining so crisp in my mind. Weeks later when we were driving across the Nullarbor, we saw a man in a faded yellow jacket, leaning to the right walking a small dog. A little ways down the road, sure enough, there was Kevin’s camper van with his blue moped held on the back by about fifty bungee cords. I wondered how many nights his pension would require him to stay in that spot. I think about him often. He was an ordinary bloke with an extraordinary outlook on life and I was so glad to have met him.
Back at camp- this dirty after just one day.
Campsite- making dinner and having a fire.
Chris on potato harvester.
Potato harvester.
Moving irrigation pipes.
Spuds anyone?
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Kevin sounds like a character who’s got a great attitude on a long hard road, would have been a pleasure to meet him.
Oh it really was a pleasure hearing all the stories he had. He was a fine fellow.
I have a dog named Max too!!! I think everyone knows some one like Kevin and will always look back at memories with him in kind regards.
Yes, I wonder where he is now- I hope cozied up his camper.